


Wings

by lovestruckstories



Category: Reigning Passions (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Childhood Trauma, Denial of Feelings, Disfigurement, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:34:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22585687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovestruckstories/pseuds/lovestruckstories
Summary: A simple question proves difficult to answer.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Wings

"What was it like?"

The question is asked so quietly, so hesitantly, coming from the princess' lips in nothing more than a whisper. Lyris rolls over in bed, his silks gliding across his legs as he stares down as her. She doesn't quite meet his gaze, so he places his painted fingertips underneath her chin, tilting her face up so their eyes meet.

"What was what like, Little Bird? Mumbling isn't very ladylike. I'm afraid you'll have to speak up."

His words are teasing, lighthearted, spoken with a smile; but her expression is serious, grave in every way. There's a plethora of sadness hidden within the depths of her mossy eyes, as if she's somewhere far away from here, trying to piece together something unbeknownst to him.

She bites down on her lower lip shyly, eyes falling to his chest, roaming his bare shoulders.

_"Flying."_

Nothing but a wisp of a single word, but one that makes him stiffen all the same, pulling him into a darker, colder place. She must notice the grief that flashes in his features - for she suddenly looks abashed, ashamed of her simple query.

It isn't her fault though. She doesn't know the whole story; the misadventures of two young boys who thought they were men, attempting to take on the world. The punishment that followed, simply for having dreams that lay beyond Lysende. 

Lyris can feel it now...the ghost of an iron-clad grip threaded through his hair, the watering of his eyes as he's held down. The first cut of a knife, meant for the slaughter of cattle, grazing his skin in a way that's meant to instill dread - to draw forth a timid whimper from his lips, solely for the amusement of the court. The visceral fear that shoots through him as he glances up and sees Sevastian's pallor, his face devoid of all color. There's an unrivaled, unconcealed horror in his eyes; the right one swollen almost completely shut from the brute force behind the swing of his father's staff after he'd tried to look away.

They'd both realized far too late what was happening, and had been powerless to stop it. On display before the entirety of the family, an example in the making. A warning against traitorous disloyalty for all those unlucky enough to find themselves presiding within the foreboding, stoney walls of House Winter.

Lyris blinks, and there's a sudden flash of crimson somewhere in his peripheral. It shines in his mind's eye as he hears the faint echo of Hortensia's screaming, somewhere distant, mewling like a strangled cat in the back of his head. 

There had been blood that night. Gods have mercy, there had been _so much blood_. A shocking amount really, considering how small he'd been back then. Such a silly little slip of a thing, and yet it had been nothing short of a foundation's worth that had slid down the curve of his spine, coating the pristine white floors of the throne room.

The pain had been unimaginable, the burning and tearing as he'd been so heartlessly sheared and publicly ridiculed indescribable. They had all but ripped him clean in two, entire limbs removed from his body and carelessly dropped to the floor...

Discarded like they were mere _rubbish,_ instead of his entire identity - the very thing that discerned him from human and made him Oscen.

They alone had deemed him a creature of magic; borne of the heavens.

And now, without them, he was trapped forever more in Hell.

Yet he'd been blind to the pain following those first few torturously agonizing moments, eventually going numb with shock over the grisly sight of his own ruby-stained, ruined feathers as they began to fall. They had been so bright in contrast to the marble below, littering the ground all around him. He recalls clutching them in his quivering fingers, completely unhinged as he desperately tried to gather them up, to somehow _save_ them, even as he bled out. Even as they slipped from his grasp, damp and dissolving.

And when he'd finally wavered, his vision doubling, his body growing cold, Sevastian had carried him in his arms - pressed tightly against his strong chest - semi-conscious, all the way to Gideon's tower, only nearly saving his life.

The very next day though...Gods, he'd _wished_ he were dead. Because he had awoken lying on his back…

And that was something he'd never been able to do before.

Lyris is pulled from the illusions of his haunted past as Triss' hand glides delicately through his hair, the soft colored ends slipping easily through her fingertips. There's no pulling against his scalp, no pain in her touch; only tenderness from her caress as she slides them downward and turns to cup his cheek in her small hand, stroking his smooth skin with her calloused thumb.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry. I was simply curious - please, forget that I asked."

She drops her hand away, only for him to catch it. He lays back against his pillows then as he fiddles idly with her fingers. He maps them out with his own - the long length, the elegant shape - before slowly tracing the curved lines of her roughened palm. It's a task to settle his mind, his racing thoughts. She doesn't comment on it, simply lies there and breathes softly, in and out, like the angel she is. Unlike Piama, who always fusses over his _quirks_. His oddities. 

The ceiling above them has skylights in it. He can see the swollen moon so clearly from their humble resting place, the glittering silver stars above, the thin strips of blue-gray clouds that drift so freely by.

It's breathtaking - a picturesque, serene scene. But also so far away.

Yet he'd been able to touch it, once upon a time. Hadn't he?

"I almost don't remember…" It's his turn to whisper, the airy words heavy on his tongue. "It's been so long now that I've been tethered to this Earth. My memories these days from before, they feel more like dreams in a way."

He absentmindedly rolls his shoulder against the mattress, feeling the unused, atrophied muscles of his upper back flex. They bunch together as a sharp, prickling pain creeps all along the raw, open edges of his wounds - which are frozen in time, a purposeful stasis crafted from madness and desperation.

The same motion, not so long ago, would've felt lovely. Divine even. It was how he'd awoken each and every morning; lying on his belly, stretching out one side, followed by the other. Lazily basking in the sun.

He laughs. A clipped, hollow sound. "Hmm. How unfortunate it is that I can't quite recollect the concepts, let alone the sensations of my own weightlessness. I didn't do it often, you see; it wasn't proper in the court's eyes. But my wings…" He sighs heavily. "I do remember my wings."

He blinks away the thin film of moisture daring to fall from his eyes as he turns towards Triss, a faint smile dancing upon his lips as he squeezes her hand affectionately.

"Oh, you should have _seen_ them, Wildergirl. Thirteen arm spans wide, easily, and the color..." He glances down at the ends of his hair, which he dyed in memory of them. "They were tawny, a rich golden brown, with accent feathers that had been this brilliant blend of iridescent greens and speckled blues. Like Spring itself in all her glory."

Her own eyes begin to glisten, sparkling with pent up pools of crystal clear tears as her free hand trails down his arm. It's a ghostly pleasure that chases her touch, the kind one of a friend, and it unintentionally stirs memories of what she'd been like as a lover - free and bare. 

All his.

Merely a woman and man, with nothing in between. No titles, nor gratuitous expectations...no demands.

Such bliss. Such simplicity. That night had been nothing but sheer perfection, and Lyris holds his fondness for it near and dear, treasuring it always, every hour of every day.

"I bet they were beautiful," she whispers as she bites back a wave of emotion, attempting to keep her face stoic.

Such a strong young thing, his Triss. So very brave. A true queen in such desolate times of unrest. Someone the people deserve.

Though beneath the surface of her hardened - abit exquisite - exterior, she is also extremely fragile, like the artfully crafted stained glass windows that encircle them. So full of heart that he worries someday it may overflow and burst.

She's had so many responsibilities laden upon her these past few months - and new issues, crueler twists in the plot of her life, seem to appear with each new rise of the dawn. That being so, he doesn't want to burden her down with any more weight. Especially not over the likes of him. 

And so he grins wide, his dazzling smile full of forced pride, as he pushes his troubles back deep into the recesses of his mind. He locks them away along with his own heart, which he hardens from her love as he playfully nudges her, gifting her a flirtatious wink.

"But of course - they were mine, weren't they?"


End file.
